


heaven help me

by twilighttown



Category: Hypnosis Mic, Hypnosis Microphone
Genre: 2nd person because im dumb, M/M, whats capitalization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilighttown/pseuds/twilighttown
Summary: samatoki stopped believing in god when god proved to be too busy to save him and his mother and sister from that demon of a father.ichiro is no god, but he's as close to an angel as samatoki has ever met.





	heaven help me

you meet by chance. there are a group of teenagers in the street, kids, really, freestyling and drawing a crowd in front of a local high school. you aren't interested at all, and you walk on by, but a voice like pure fire pierces the air, clarity amid the cacophony.

before you know it, you've pushed your way to the center, eager to find the source of that voice. standing over his writhing opponent is a young man with eyes that burn, a hypnosis mic dangling from his hand.

to be hit by a hypnosis mic is one thing, but the strain of using it is another—but the boy looks completely unfazed by the drain he must have suffered.

you're impressed.

"hey, kid," you call. he flicks his gaze towards you (not just fire, but earth, as well). "what's your name?"

he gives you a quick once-over, and you're not trying to intimidate him, not really, but you straighten up anyway.

then he smiles, and you're taken aback. you expected a rogue hardened by the streets—not a cheerful young man with a sun-bright smile.

"ichiro," he says. "yamada ichiro."

 

ichiro is a blazing red in your black-blue world, a once-in-a-lifetime shooting star. he's loud laughter and wide smiles, when all you knew before were choked sobs and angry words and flinching at the sound of heavy footsteps. ichiro is a light unlike you've ever known before.

"senpai!" he calls, as you walk down the street. you turn around, and there he is, blue plastic bag in his hands, running to catch up.

"what's in there?" you say in lieu of a greeting, jerking your chin towards the bag.

his face lights up. "oh! this series i'm into just came out with a new volume, so i picked it up."

you eye the bag. it's a little bulky. "that's one book?"

ichiro rubs the back of his neck. "well, there were new series that came out and caught my eye, too, and they looked so interesting i just couldn't help myself..." his eyes turn warm as he looks at the bag.

you don't really want to admit it, but bashfulness is a surprisingly good look on him.

"ah, actually, senpai!" the slight blush fades from his cheeks (disappointing, but you'd never tell) and the excitement is back. "i picked up one about these, kids caught up in a gang war, and there's this mysterious doctor and a headless phantom, it looked really thrilling! i thought of you! do you want to borrow it when i'm done?"

you're not really a reading man, never really had the time, being on the run from the police, so you're about to say 'no.' but ichiro is bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to share his precious interests with you, and when your head won't stop playing his words on repeat, _i thought of you!_ , what other choice do you have than to say yes?

(you don't regret it in the slightest, not when he looks like you've just made him the happiest person in the world.)

 

you don't know what compels you to bring this teenager ( _"i'm eighteen, i'm an adult!!!"_ ) to dirty dawg's hangout—jakurai's apartment—but you do, and it's the best decision you've ever made.

he gets along with ramuda fast with his vast knowledge of pop culture, and they speak with so much slang that you and jakurai are convinced they're not speaking japanese, anymore. the two of you are content to watch them, but then ichiro turns around and introduces himself to jakurai, and the eldest member of dirty dawg is caught off guard by the excitement in his voice, by the wholehearted passion behind his bright eyes, and jakurai is utterly impressed with how much enthusiasm can be packed into one human being.

and just when you start to feel a little jealous, ichiro smiles at you again, breathtaking, beautiful, and you don't believe in god but you _might_ , again, because what other power than an almighty god could have created this radiant, beloved bundle of light?

ichiro flicks your forehead, "hey, are you listening to me?" and you bat his hand away, but you mean no harm. ramuda and jakurai laugh, "you're not usually one to get lost in your thoughts, samatoki- _kun_."

you're ready to fire back some sort of retort, but then ichiro laughs, too, and it's the most wonderful sound you've ever heard.

 

"how is it, senpai?"

you're sitting on the floor of his room, reading one of the books from his collection after he practically begged you to let him recommend something ( _“just let me pick one for you, i know you’ll love this one series i have!”_ ). you’ll be honest, you weren’t really expecting much from a light novel, but the tale of mafiosos and alchemists has surprisingly gripped your focus, and has yet to let go.

“eh, it’s okay.” you say, just in case he starts getting the wrong idea.

he pouts. “aw, what? i was sure you’d be all over that one.” he closes the magazine he’d been flipping through and sits up on his bed, scanning the rows of books and dvds he has on his shelves. “maybe we should watch an anime, instead.”

“anime? that stuff’s for kids, isn’t it?”

you say it jokingly, hoping to rile him up a little, but ichiro has a face like war. “you don’t mean that, senpai.”

if it were anyone else, you’d be picking a fight, but this is ichiro you’re talking about, a boy like a raging fire: bright and warm, but just as dangerous. there’s no doubting your own skill, but even _you_ took some time before jakurai acknowledged your power. ichiro was chosen in one day.

so you swallow your pride and play along. “well, s’fine to do kid stuff with our spoiled kid, right?”

he huffs. “hey, watch it," he says, leaning over the edge of the bed to rest his head on your shoulder. "my birthday's soon, you know? i'll be twenty before you know it."

"still ain't twenty yet, brat," you flick his nose and he splutters. "watch your tone."

 

on the evening of his nineteenth birthday, he kisses you, _hard._

it's sloppy and he's oh so obviously inexperienced, he bites your lip and _fuck_ , does it hurt, but you can't bring yourself to care, not when he's pulling on the collar of your shirt and you have yamada ichiro in your arms, kissing you like he'll die if he doesn't.

his hair is silky underneath your fingertips and you tug, you tilt his face with your other hand as he presses his body against yours. he gasps when your thigh finds its way between his legs. groans when you lift it a little higher.

_"samatoki."_

you break the kiss to press your lips against the beauty mark below his left eye, and his breathless laughter leaves your head spinning.

you kiss him again, and again, kiss him long into the night, until he falls asleep, boneless and satiated in your arms. he snuggles up close to you, face in the crook of your neck, and you kiss him one last time on the top of his head with a contented sigh before you let your own sleepiness wash over you.

this, you think, this is heaven. and as you fall asleep with the love of your life, you pray to every god that it never comes to an end.

 

ichiro comes to jakurai's place bearing the news of his brother in the hospital with a concussion, and his resignation from the team.

jakurai looks surprised, but claims understanding, and calmly lets ichiro walk away, but you and ramuda are having none of it. ramuda stomps his feet and tears form in his eyes, you clench your fists, trying to restrain yourself from hitting something (worse, someone), and ichiro deflects anything and everything you and ramuda manage to call him.

"i can't just leave them."

something snaps.

"hypocrite," you hiss out, not a yell, not a scream, but he looks more frightened and hurt by that one quiet word than any of the insults you've hurled at him so far. ramuda and jakurai have fallen silent, and you can feel all eyes on you.

ichiro moves towards you, slowly, one hand outstretched, as if trying to approach a wild animal. "senpai," he calls, and god, _god_ you wish you could meet him halfway, take him into your arms, kiss all the hurt away. you wish you could follow him out that door. there's no dirty dawg without ichiro, so why should you stay, anyways? you want to hold him. kiss him. live out your entire life next to him. you want to, you want to, you want to.

"senpai, it's not—"

"just. go."

but you're not strong enough.

ichiro forces down a sob before he backs away. the door slides closed with a barely-audible 'click,' and out goes the best thing that's ever happened to you.

 

dirty dawg tries to survive the division war as best as it can, and you put up a good fight, all things considered. you last another couple months as an untouchable legend.

but there's no dirty dawg without ichiro, and with his absence, there's no one to carry your flow, no one to bring the energy you need to unite on the battlefield. ramuda and jakurai try, try, try, but at the first sign of losing, ramuda throws a tantrum, and jakurai has never truly understood how to soothe ramuda when he's become cranky, and you hate watching them crumble, but getting angry is all you were ever taught how to do, so the tension builds and builds until it all culminates into the shattering of the only "home" you ever knew into four irreparable parts.

 

you hate it.  
you hate all of it.  
especially him.

 

you catch wind of a man they call a "dirty cop," and when you meet him, he's just what you need to get back into the game.

juto is stern, but a little mischievous—no, more like malicious. he's a devil in disguise, beating and bribing his way down to the filthiest part of the crime world. he's living proof that 'justice' isn't everything that it seems, ichiro's antithesis, and maybe that's why you're so drawn to him.

plus, he raps like no one's business. so the prospect of teaching yamada ichiro a lesson in loss is a bonus.

 

you think you're over it until you catch him with his brothers, leaning over the railing to take a look at the water.

you've returned to smoking cigarettes since teaming up with juto, without jakurai or ramuda or him to stop you, and you take a long drag as you watch the three of them admire the bay.

he looks skinnier than you remember, the same broad shoulders, but no meat on his bones. his posture looks relaxed, possibly only because his brothers are around, and you know him and his pride, he'd never let his precious baby brothers see him falter. his skin is pale, though, how long has it been since he's been outside? he looks a little sickly and there are deep bags under his eyes, still so bright in their mismatched green and red and he looks at you, so, so tired—

ah.

he's looking at you.

you hold each other's gazes for only a few seconds but it feels like years, you've missed him so much. he turns the rest of his body towards you. in a split second you have to decide where to run, far, far away from this place, or towards him? you don't know. you hate it, you hate it, but you don't know which way to run, so you stand there, frozen under his gaze, watching his lips start to form your name—

"niichan?"

suddenly his attention snaps away, and he's back to doting on his brothers. like he never saw you. like you weren't there at all. one word from them, and he comes running, leaving you in the dust.

it's a painfully familiar feeling.

you stamp out your cigarette and walk away, not turning back, even as you feel him watching you.

 

juto is up for some 'team bonding' that night, thank god, you need the distraction. he shows up at your door, uniform and all, and you take him to bed in hopes of forgetting messy black hair that you always ran your hands through, broad shoulders that curled around you in cuddles, the beauty mark under his scarlet eye that you loved to kiss, making him laugh and pull you closer. forget it. forget. _forget._

(it doesn't work.)

 

months turn into years, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. it's hard not to run into him in the middle of the widespread division war. some days you can barely stop yourself from tearing him limb from limb with your own goddamn hands. others, you stiffen up, begging your body not to chase after him and hold him tight, no matter how badly you want to.

time passes.

you hate the things about him, but you don't hate him. you hate heroes and justice and valor. you hate carefully-tended fireplaces, the warmth of a "borrowed" (stolen) letterman jacket, the smell of sweat and cherry cola lingering in its threads. you hate the electrifying smile he used to give you, _only_ you, brighter than any star, and you hate the worried furrow of his eyebrows when he catches sight of your bruised and battered skin, and you hate the way he almost (almost, but doesn't) reaches out to hold you, like he did before.

ichiro was your chance at a happy ending, and when he walked out that door, he took nearly every bit of sunshine in your life with him, leaving your world darker than it ever was before.

but you don't hate him.

you don't hate him.


End file.
